


Squeaky Clean

by silentsoundy



Category: Transformers: Prime
Genre: Masturbation in Shower, Other, Self-Service
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-09-26
Updated: 2014-09-26
Packaged: 2018-02-18 21:23:11
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,132
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2362598
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/silentsoundy/pseuds/silentsoundy
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>An irritated spymaster in search of a little escape and release.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Squeaky Clean

**Author's Note:**

> ||a one-off posted last year on the RP blog||  
> ||music: Nothing Matters - Tricky feat. Nneka||

The impromptu extended recon, the sudden barrage of requests upon his return, the wireless pinging of comm-chatter and Ravage yammering on about abandonment issues thinking he’d been left behind for some obscure reasons involving nonsensical punishment and, and ,and…

And the next mech to approach him with some menial issue was going to find his helm quite neatly severed and pitched across the lunar landscape.

He needed a moment, just a single moment to decompress and then he’ll be able to carry on about his duties. Easier said than done, however, as the spy’s chassis continues to rumble, biolights a white-hot pulsing map indicative of how prolonged flight charges his systems, make him run his frame right to the border of red-lining core temperatures and making it too easy to build up and peak overcharged systems.

So a cool rinse cycle in the washracks was an easy decision, and already what little plating that could be manually removed was done so, placed neatly on a table for said purpose outside his personal racks. Soon an even flow of thin solutions is streaming from the opposite wall and loud, core-rumbling basslines are thumping through his personal PA to drown out the incessant chatter that’s snaking through his thoughts.

The dark spy’s shoulders shift and rotate under the pre-rinse, wing-blades coming up to hook slender digits into familiar grooves in the wall as he leans forward to rest the crest of his helm against the wall and just have that cool liquid pour over his chassis and dorsa in a single, smooth wave of gentle ripples. Intakes being closed, and despite the cool temperature of the wash, his frame continues to keep a constant high temperature, a deeply rooted warmth slowly churning at the base of his dorsa making it nigh impossible for him to cease the fidgeting shifting of his pedes and legs, as if goaded on by the next queued up tune. Now his feelers extend, a slow, somber series of recoiling movements, in hopes to withdraw and dissipate at least a fraction of that purring heat.

Those appendages lower to the floor, lights pulsing to the deeply driven bass, then begin to move careful tendrils and claws, minute caresses along plating and seams, searching for debris and fissures and just generally attempting to sooth what may or may not be ailing the silent mech. Crimson optics shutter and smooth lip plates part a fraction as he begins to fall into a subtle routine of frame maintenance, allowing his secondary and tertiary sets of feelers to withdraw from his chassis, much smaller appendages whose purpose strays from tactile manipulation and focus on pure data transfer. These coil out from his frame only to loop back and around his midsection, nuzzling exposed jacks and ports against his protoform as if in reaction to some deeply subconscious desire.

…well if the wash wasn’t going to dissipate his overcharged systems…

Some semblance of a half-grin, half-smirk twists up at the corner of his mouth, ire and agitation still exuding from his posture and mannerisms. His digits curl into those tell-tale grooves as he takes a half-step back with a single pede, swaying his dorsa as those thinner feelers begin to coil about him before finding their respective hard lines. That lopsided smirk twitches into a quickly-passing grimace then a mute gasp as he attempts to rein in a burst of feedback that cycles high.

The wash switches to its second cycle, pouring warmer solutions over his frame as he turns his helm to rest the side against the wall, simply reveling in that delicious, controlled looping of empty packets and bursting bits of inner static. His pelvis shifts at an angle and his pedes spread a bit as he forces himself not to open his intakes to take in his own scent of slowly accumulating transfluid, some of which begins to trickle from partially opened panels.

Ah, so it’s going to be this kind of wash then…

He trills quietly to himself as the bass from that tune hammers against his chassis, thrumming into him such a compulsive desire to just enjoy the moment, forget the nagging and nattering of outside sources and drift away with thoughts of wandering servos, murmured designations, gentle laughter… a lapping glossa… stroking digits… hitched leg… thrusting hips… paint transfers and sparks and churning static and oh Primus…

A feeler wends its way between his leg struts to arch a loop against his exposed valve, slowly slithering back and forth against mesh, seal and node with gentle vibrations. Using its extended length and the floor as leverage, he lifts himself slightly, pressing up against him as he begins to slowly grinds against the appendage, keeping himself steadied by clinging to the wall. His free feeler nudges against his lower dorsa, mandibles firmly affixed to tattered protoform as tendrils snake along the silvery metal of his frame to coil and stroke against cables and wiring.

It doesn’t take long, not with a now-unleashed feedback loop cycling his systems into a quickened frenzy, with coils upon coils of sensitive biotech arching and resonating and grinding and invading and stroking and caressing at what seems like every section of his frame. His helm scrapes against the wall as he tilts it back, hips rocking against the thrusting segments of his feelers as his valve cycles to clench against nothing behind his seal. His trills turn to falsetto gasping whines, volume rivaling that of that pounding bass, singing out as licks of blue static lash against his anterior node, building up parallel tension alongside the peaked looping his data feelers are burning with.

Irritation now swept away with a desperate need for release, the dark spy’s frame tenses with minute convulsions rolling up along his protoform, such a sweet, sweet build up to a most desires crescendo and oh, if only he could share and be jacked in to another, it’s almost unbearable this optic-blanching burst of release, oh Primus, frag he can’t get enough, please oh for the love of Pit please don’t stop, ah—-!~

And a single, sweet, high pitched trill moans from his chassis as his wish is fulfilled, overload crashing into him as systems scream failures and demand hard resets, static leaping from him only to be slammed back with crackling force from the final rinse cycle of the wash, wiping all shivering tension from him in a single, split-nanoklik of violent burst.

When he comes to his addled senses not a few kliks later, he finds himself rinsed clean and dried and clinging to those grooves in the wall as if hanging on for his dear life. 

A few more kliks later finds him quietly making his way to his communications bay, visor down and trilling a little ditty.


End file.
